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by Marron Shed
Summary: Sandor Clegane and Tyrion Lannister form an unlikely alliance.
1. Chapter 1

Chapter 1 - Sodomites

Sandor rolled off Tyrion, edging away from the pile of cuddlejuice-soaked bedsheets. His breasts rose upwards as he breathed heavily, culminating in a vicious downward strike. He was wearing a double breasted suit jacket with an impeccable fit and peaked lapels, orphaned from the trousers by the means of lovemaking.

"Did you call the Ram-man yet?" Tyrion enquired, his eyes caressing Sandor's throbbing lapels.

"Of course. He will be waiting for us at the ElecktroShnitzel," Sandor said, pointing at the cuddlejuice that splattered to form the map of Downtown.

"I hate that place," Tyrion snickered, pleased. "I always loved their Dunka-Dunka concerts."

Sandor glared at Tyrion's heavenly body. The only piece of attire covering him was a plain white dress shirt, a sign of polite vulgarity. The contrast stitching on the collar resembled something rude when looked at from an 83 degree angle. Sandor licked his lips at the sight and started wiping the splatters of cuddlejuice off the ceiling.

Tyrion lashed out, his middle leg's toe striking Sandor's face. Blood and pieces of bone and cartilage flew all over the place. He snorted and wiped his face. "Balls fucker..." Tyrion muttered.

"Ready to go?" Sandor asked, slipping into his pants to cover his manhood and picking up his briefcase.

Tyrion nodded, buttoning up his shirt. The buttons on his shirt were miniature gates into the fourth dimension, breaking the flow of space and time. Every single time he would touch one of the buttons his finger would break the nose of a random Polish person, reminding him to consume more of their luscious gas-liquid.

As they approached the door to exit the small bedroom, Sandor made a sound that was somewhere between a sniffle and a publisher's dream. He stepped onto a touch-plate in front of the door. The sound of lamentation filled the room.

There were exactly 633.7 children on the other side, ages 8 to 30. Their blood curdled as they saw the pair of sodomites standing before them. The adrenaline stream entered their blood, only it was pure cocaine distilled with the urine of the Elder Gods. Lasers shot out of their eyes, burning a hole in the bedroom wall, which was also the ceiling, splattering blood and urine-paste everywhere. The puddle of cuddlejuice groaned and smoldered with the heat, its deathly throes a reminder of Fred Astaire's silent lobotomy. The floor under Sandor and Tyrion collapsed as deadly sperm gas filled the room.


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter 2 – Ramsay

The ElectroShnitzel entrance was designed to prevent childhood obesity, with three stick figures depicted in a neon font, each holding up a hand. The fingers of the hand split into three elongated strips which were all abysmally short, reaching 50 meters into the sky like Armstrong's tears. A mummer's farce was depicted on top of the strips, with skinless elephants that had penises for trunks portrayed instead of people. The backs of the elephants were crowned by a three-sided inverted knobler.

Frat boys worked the night, flashing their ladyparts at potential customers. Legates and connoisseurs of the fleshy desires would pay in exchange for being violently beaten by these whore mongers. Sandor contemplated on the unexpected nature of humanity's asscracking while Tyrion wept acid tears which melted the pavement. With every 36 inch hole in the pavement the baby's screams that resonated from somewhere deep underground grew louder. Tyrion wiped the tears from his face with his robot arm and chortled.

The twosome entered the bar, but only while singing the Seventh Warsong of Delirium. The interior was as wide as two football fields, but only two feet long. The ceiling was crafted specifically for victims of cannibalism. It was a custom to side step around the bar with one of your legs on the floor and the other on the ceiling or the orifice of a person next to you. Sandor led his companion to Ramsay Bolton's arranged table, Tyrion's foot fitting firmly inside his nostril.

Ramsass was a terrible excuse for a breakdancer, spending his time drinking distilled solids in the memory of his broken career and lingerie. He was wearing a short skirt and had a .50 calibre anti-material sniper rifle shoved up his ass.

"Please, good friends, sit down," Ramsai said, fidgeting and trying to ignore his natural discomforts.

Ramfaust's table had a large orifice in the centre, leaving only 3 inches of space to be putting things on. The orifice was humming, a large tongue visible every 0.3 seconds.

"Now, what exactly do you want?" Ramsrums asked.

"I am not going to play any games," Sandor warned. "My plan is a precise one. Cersei has ruled for too long. At some point, her ruling karma will unbalance the equilibrium of the population and we will be forced to elect every citizen of the city to rule for seventy years each, before killing each of them and placing their bastard children on the throne. You know what the consequences will be."

Tyrion winced. He remembered what it was like to have pubic hair.

"Cut to the chase, sir," Ramsrees said, picking at the scab behind his eye. "What is it that you want me to do?"

"I need the Red Palace to be flipped upside down and placed with the roof pointing downwards. Afterwards, I will appoint a trustworthy man, perhaps you, to sit on top of the refurbished structure. That way, Cersei will be overruled," Sandor explained.

The silence lasted a second.

"Very well, I can perform the task," Ramseer agreed. "It will be done on the morn. Pleasure meeting you."

As Ramshat began to shake hands with Sandor, Tyrion seized the opportunity.

He pulled the trigger of the rifle.

Suddenly, a coathanger was set lose on the patrons. Cries and prayers to the mankind's dong champions were unheard as blood splattered all over the walls of the bar-stablishment. A long line of ravaged tables tipped over like some giant wooden dominoes encrusted in people's gore blood, releasing a wondering cloudmass of spontaneous agony which pushed Ramcunt into the table orifice.

The orifice laughed.


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter 3 – Order

Tyrion was cured. Shadows of tapdancer fiends glistened with bodily fluids all over, and he prepared for battle. He strangled the trunk of his man-elephant, his fingers reaching into the shlong-orifice. As his fingertips passed the miniature purgatory within he pulled out a tiny metal spec dustling into the overworld. It grew in size constantly through the burning of babies, and proceeded to become an iron sceptre. It was a joyful thing, thoroughly soaked in eye-cheese emitted from a nearby sneezing cow.

Tyrion threw the sceptre into the air nonchalantly.

* * *

Tyrion was in a wet place that was both dark and stinging. He tore open his eyelids and saw that he had made it into his neck-limb. It was a treacherous place, with lavender cheese grates placed throughout. They emitted a sound that was thick in volume, and hurt like a maiden's undoing when touched.

He knew that he reached his third ovary when he spotted the Boy. It was a horse standing on its hind legs, with a camel's decapitated head sewn tightly to its appalling yet thoroughly washed arsehole. His left arm had reverse joints, dragging a tuxedo-wearing man by the throat behind the beastard. It turned its head completely around by snapping its own neck and stared into the man's soul.

"I cared for you always, deep in your womb!" the Boy hissed in a horribly high-pitched vocalization.

The hand applied more pressure until the man's face grew purple and his legs dangled in pre-coital agony. His Adam's apple cracked as the Boy's fingernail pressed and shattered against it. Finally, there was a morbid squishing noise as the man's eyes popped and gushed with eye-jelly like some butterfly's excrement, shortly accompanied by a cannon salute in Venice. The Boy extended his right arm, which was just a stump with a myriad of hand grenades glued to it, and flicked the pins off with a spare hair follicle.

The explosion expunged Tyrion's appendix.

* * *

Sandor's plan has succeeded and the Queen was dead. It was the gay spring in his footing that excited him most, though. Tyrion the Undying Solderer of Solitude followed always.

Suddenly, mid flight, Tyrion diagnosed himself with appendicitis.

"Fuck you!" He yelled at Sandor, blind in his diagonally sound rage. "What do I do?"

Sandor opened his facehole to reply, but no words came out, only a tiny squirrel husk that was sent down by the Seven Gods. He saw the bodies in the night and warned Tyrion.

"Cover me. I will take care of our little problem..." Tyrion said, putting on sunglasses that were not really there.

Tyrion used his hands to hold open his jaw and jumped inside.


	4. Chapter 4

Chapter 4 – Climax

The shadows took up glittering forms of research directors which were clad in labcoats sewn elegantly and without mercy out of mosquito flesh. They wielded barbershop accessories, singing in the voice of the duet that didn't. Sandor and Tyrion were transported to two different places in space and time before engaging.

Sandor spun around and kicked the dickhead in his left testicle, which shattered all of his bones. Sandor then made the bone fragments into uranium hollow point rounds and sent them towards the rest of the fuckers. They bled out gravy which, upon the contact with the ground, sprouted wings and spawned children of its own.

Sandor jammed his hand into the first skinhead's body, tearing past the shit-sack, and pulling out the stomach, releasing a sickening crunch onto the earth. The sound wave hit the Berlin Wall, and lessened the lifespan of the community of homosexuals living within.

Sandor tore open the stomach and found Cuntsplitter inside, a fishing rod glowing with a greenish-purple color, fabricated from the thawing blood of an Iron Maiden, polished with a lovechild of the Seventeenth motherfucking Baron, and perfected with an oil rag that was used as underwear in hell. Words "PEDICABO TE" were engraved on the meaty shaft throbbing with acid.

A vicious backhand slash hit the second labcoated fucktard, spraying bloodied gravy shitstains all over as he split into two fucking halves. Sandor discovered that the legs of the evil bastards were made entirely out of scissors, so he rubbed the sub-atomic metal particles of the scissors off with his fingertips and manipulated the genetic code of the third asswipe, causing his fucking head to explode in a shower of cracker jack clothes and blood.

* * *

The researchers overwhelmed Tyrion and caused a nuisance, so he ripped out his bottom right buttcheek and wrought it into a bench press from Hell. He rode it like a sled with Hellhippos embedded directly into the front of the doom-machine. Their hoove-like padknickers, each dressed into a trenchcoat, moved with the speed of light, making the sled shoot into space and sending waves upon waves of fuckstorms at his adversaries, boiling the fat in their body. He set fire to the leather trenchcoats with a zippo lighter, causing whorefire to appear spontaneously underneath the fuckfaces, causing their eyes melt into their sockets and their eye-sockets to collapse into their fucking manhoods. A cloud of glitter-dust has arisen from the wreckage and propelled itself towards the remaining foes at the speed of thought, wrecking their fucking bodies into physical manifestations of ruin.

There was only one survivor, an elderly manchild who's life goal was to not do much. He sang the psalms spawned for naught by his own deranged intelligence, hysterically blissful at the concept of self-fulfillment. Sandor rushed in and slashed at his legs with Cuntsplitter, sending the broken bones to protrude from the fleshy stumps, until a huge fucking hand came out of the ground beneath him and pulled him into hell, to undergo an face-transplant surgery.

Cuntsplitter laughed.


End file.
